


Going In

by TakeTheShot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton is ready to join S.H.I.E.L.D., ClintCoulson Remix Challenge 2019, First Meeting, Get Together, Happy Ending, He has a plan, Injury, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Porn, Remix, SHIELD Husbands, Stitches, a fair bit of porn, assuming everyone is on the same page, be careful who you pick up in bars, because I cant help it, bendy Clint is bendy, images of doing your own first aid, messy blowjobs, phlint - Freeform, pre-avengers, which might not quite be true, you might get exactly what you were looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-14 06:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: A remix of florahart's 'Recruitment Techniques Aren't Always In The Handbook' for Clint/Coulson remix 2019.S.H.I.E.L.D has been chasing Clint Barton for a long time now, and he's always managed to keep ahead of them. It's just that...recently, the life of a hired gun (hired bow?) is losing it's charm and he's started thinking that he might not want to avoid S.H.I.E.L.D. any more. And not, despite whatever Natasha thinks, just because the Agent who's currently on his case is a handsome, steely-eyed badass. Honest.All Clint needs to do it make up his mind and find a way join S.H.I.E.L.D. that shows off his skills and prevents him from getting shot in the process. Easy, right? And if could manage to catch the attention of a certain badass along the way? Well, a guy can dream.He has a plan. He's ready for anything. It's time for Hawkeye to go in.





	Going In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [florahart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Recruitment Techniques Aren't Always in the Handbook](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311191) by [florahart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart). 

> I very much enjoy Florahart's awesome account of Phlint's first meeting at every reading because it's so smoothly done and utterly full of yummy badass Phil. But I always wonder just exactly what Clint thought he was doing. Hence, this. I hope I did it justice. Enjoy!

“Fuck it!” 

Clint cursed as he crashed into his latest safehouse, locking the door behind him and slinging his bag under the table, “Fuck it! And fuck that and fuck those guys. Especially fuck those guys!” The bag skidded knocking over a stool, which Clint caught, flipped upright and kicked it over to the table where he slammed himself down onto it, still ranting, “I mean seriously? Come on! If someone does the job you ask them to do and does it well then it is seriously _not good manners_ to come after them with a fucking _knife_.” 

He put his bow case on the table much more carefully than he’d thrown the bag then sighed and dragged over the first aid kit. Getting the needle threaded was not the easiest thing he’d ever accomplished but eventually he had it laid out on the table with the rest of the stuff he was going to need. Only then did he push up his shirt and peel back the hasty dressing he’d slapped over the three inch gash across his hip. Not all that deep and better than a knife to the kidneys but still, it had bled like a bitch. He scowled. “Bunch of bastards.”

Washing the wound out was a fucking wince-fest that led to a fresh round of bleeding, same for applying the anaesthetic gel. While he waited for the gel to kick in he forced down an energy bar knowing that as much as doing his own stitches was guaranteed to leave him nauseous, he would definitely need the sugar boost to keep his hands steady. 

Because sure, it was a sugar low and not concentrated rage making them shake. 

Eventually, finally numbed enough, Clint took a deep breath, pressed the edges of the gash together and pushed the needle through. The thread dragged sickly as it pulled through the skin and he cursed again, 

“_Bunch_ of _bastards_. Absolute _fucking_ bastards. Fuck all of them.” Four, five, six stitches went in to the soundtrack of his hissed swearing and grimaces and then, finally it was done. He carefully stuck a fresh dressing across – one with a fancy hydrocolloid pad to speed the healing because he seriously could not afford to be laid up – then leaned back in his chair and blew out one last curse, “Fuck this.” It came out more vulnerable than venomous and who was he kidding? And who was he even talking to? Clint let himself sag, his head dropping back. For a long moment he hung like that, half-sick and teetering on the edge of indecision, every muscle held in a kind of tired, wired tension. Glaciers formed and melted as his brain ground, then he shook himself minutely and sat forward again, groaning, to put his head down on the table, “Seriously Clint. Fuck it. It’s time.” 

It _was_ time.

There had to be more to it than this. To his existence on this fucking planet. He’d had had some shit times and, yeah, some absolutely stunning times - usually pretty close together - chasing jobs then running from the same jobs, crappy motels and glamorous hotels, bags of cash and then no cash, saving people, losing people, insane, fantastic highs, real down and dirty lows and all the while, wondering if there was any point.

Any fucking point at all to what he was doing. 

He’d spent a long time rootless, pretty much his whole life, and he’d had enough. He was ready for more certainty. More meaning. For just, _more_. So it was time.

To be fair, it wasn’t like he didn’t have options. The heavy, empty pull in his gut might be telling him that they weren’t enough for what he wanted anymore, for who he wanted to be, but the options were definitely there. He’d made sure that they would be, had built them all himself, solidly. There were contacts he could contact and names he could drop. He had boltholes and weapons caches across the country - the globe, even – and bank accounts in tens of different names all building up to a more than healthy balance. Obviously he had his talents, his skills. Fuck, he would always have his skills because he’d earned himself the title of the world’s best marksman the hard way and he worked all the damn time to make sure that it never became a lie. All of which meant that he would always be in demand and that the price for his work could pretty much set itself. So yeah, he had options. And of course if he really wanted he could call Nat. He could _always_ call Nat.

Fuck.

He had to call Nat.

Clint groaned. Calling his favourite fellow-assassin/mercenary/soldier-of-fortune/sometime mission partner when she was running dark was not exactly a great idea and she was bound to give him some serious hell for it, but he knew she would pick up for him. Besdies, he’d made his decision, was going to stick with it, and for this? Yeah, he had to call her.

She answered on the second ring. “Clint?”

“Nat,” he kept his voice steady, “sorry, I know you’re off-air right now. But can you spare five minutes?”

The line hissed gently in silence for a long moment and then Nat gave a short sigh, “So. You’ve decided. You’re going in.”

Clint startled, “How…?”

“Oh Little Bird, I’ve been expecting this call for some time. Why now?”

He should have known, of course she’d realised that he was going to do this before he had himself. She probably already knew why too. “I’m tired of it Nat.”

“Tired?” he could hear the raised eyebrow clearly enough to almost see it.

“Yes, tired.” he snapped, “Tired of hacking away without a plan, tired of looking behind the whole time because there’s always some fucker chasing me.” Clint heard the bitter tone and dialled it back, it wasn’t Nat’s fault that he’d reached his limit. “Look, when you’re around it’s awesome, you know that, but I know you can’t always be around and that sucks. I’m knocking around like a pinball and I’m tired of it. I’ve bounced about long enough Nat, you know? I want to see if I can do some actual good.” He paused, sighed, “S.H.I.E.L.D. might not be perfect but it’s the cleanest, most effective outfit we’ve ever found, the best that’s ever come after us, you gotta admit it. I’ve done my digging and I think they’re the real thing, or they mean to be. I think it’s worth a try trusting them. And the way things are? Even a semi-shady government agency’d have to be better than living like this.”

Nat huffed, a non-committal noise. “I wouldn’t have expected for the boy from the circus to be so in need of structure.” It was a jab, for sure, but she delivered it with warmth and Clint laughed, though he heard the twist in it, 

“I guess everyone looks for a ringmaster now and again.”

“Indeed.” Nat agreed. Then her voice softened as she added, “Though I would put money on it being less than a month before you reach top billing.” Nat. Always his biggest critic and his biggest fan at the same time. Clint laughed again, more freely. 

Metaphor exhausted, they sat through another comfortable silence, a twin to those they’d shared together on so many jobs. It was weird, but just knowing Nat was there, even when ‘there’ was as far away as it currently was, it made him feel better about his decision. He had back up. That was the point wasn’t it? He didn’t have to do this, but he wanted to. 

Eventually Nat broke the quiet, “So then. You’re going to let them catch you?”

“What? No!” Clint didn’t have to fake the indignance. _Catch_ him? Catch _him_? Never. “No way. I’m going to let them _find_ me. Totally not the same thing.”

“There’s my Amazing Hawkeye.” Nat chuckled this time, “Good luck then Little Bird. I hope everything turns out as you’d wish it to.”

It sounded too much like goodbye and Clint was hit with a sudden wave of fear that he was doing something that would mean not seeing her again. It made him a little desperate, “You could come in with me Nat, the plan still works with two. And both of us, the way we work together? Our combined skillset? They’d snap us up. We could even demand a star for our trailer. ‘Hawkeye and Black Widow’, our name in lights, I can see it now. Yes?”

It was a long shot and he knew it so he wasn’t at all surprised when it fell short. “No. Thank you. Not yet. I have things to do that can’t be on anybody’s radar for a while, not even S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. So, no.”

“One day then.” Clint squeezed the phone a little closer to his ear, “I’ll miss you Nat.”

“Quite right too.” he could practically see her tiny twisted smile, “But I hope not forever. Who knows, perhaps ‘one day’ you’ll be sent after me, to make a call.”

“Pfft,” Clint sorted derisively, “if that ever happened you know exactly what my call would be.”

“I do. And Clint, it’s okay. I know that you need this, and…it’s not necessarily no forever, alright?” Sudden muffled noises in the background (to Clint’s trained ear it was unmistakably shooting and then yelling in – probably – Japanese) cut through the warmth in Natasha’s voice, “I have to go.”

“Sure. Look after yourself. Be careful.” He sounded like someone’s grandma but he wasn’t worried. Nat was his best friend, she knew what he meant. 

“I will.” The pause that followed was long enough that Clint almost hung up. In fact his thumb was halfway there when her voice crackled through the speaker again, “Clint. Just...tell me that this isn’t about…Him.”

Clint’s cheeks pinked as all his blood surged there unbidden, “Who?”

Now it was the narrowing of her eyes he could hear, “Clint…”

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, “Him. It’s not Nat, honestly it’s not. It’s just…time.”

“Very well. I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t” The shooting noises were definitely getting closer, “But you can tell all of them, and Him in particular, that if you get hurt in any way, and I mean _any_ way, that I will hurt them back, to within an inch of their lives and then beyond. Is that understood?”

“Understood.” Clint repeated, smiling “Absolutely. I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up just as Nat’s voice joined the yelling, feeling a lot better but also a lot like an ass.

He hated lying to her.

Which yeah, he was prepared to argue he hadn’t _totally_ done because it wasn’t _just_ about Him, because….well. Because for a start, he wasn’t that fucking stupid. He had reasons, and logic and even more reasons completely separate from the particular issue of a certain someone. Reasons that he’d started thinking about before that particular issue even came _up_ and they were totally, completely and separately valid. It was time to go in, had been time before and would still have been time even if…that someone hadn’t been involved. Totally.

But alright, fine. He had lied a little bit to Nat and not even a little to himself. 

Because, Clint absolutely knew, the timing of his decision was a good chunk about Him.

Him.

The Agent.

Coulson.

Clint shivered a little as he got out his phone and flicked to the pictures he’d secretly taken of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s latest attempt at catching him off guard and yep, there he was. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, sunglasses, the whole G-man schtick. Which should not be at all interesting given how many times Clint had been chased by exactly that kind of guy, and yet….there was something about Coulson. Clint wondered idly what his first name was. ‘Coulson’ had been easy enough to grab the second, maybe third, time the Agent came out for him, it was an easy enough set of syllables and Clint had always been great at lip-reading. And it had definitely helped how often the other agents and specialists in his team had said it. ‘Ask Coulson’ this and ‘Where’s Coulson’ that, sprinkling his name round like confetti, like some kind of prayer. Up in his perch, hidden, Clint’s curiosity had totally sat up and taken notice. 

So, yeah. Coulson.

Not the first Agent S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent after him, not even the second, but the first one that had made Clint feel like his desire to go in might be something more than an ill-advised pipe dream. And despite Nat’s suspicions (and teasing) it wasn’t just because Coulson was good looking, though fuck yeah was he. All understated handsomeness, strong features, jawline – god, that _jawline_ \- broad shoulders and forearms for miles that made Clint want to see exactly what else he was keeping hidden under that shirt. And his eyes. Clint swiped over to another picture, a close-up. Thank god for zoom lenses because those eyes were blue as blue as blue with a glare that could cut through steel and that Clint would very much like to see bearing down on him sometime. He’d happily admit that he’d definitely spent some long moments alone in the shower with his imagination running hot and cock in hand, picturing that stare eyeing him over and wondering how that throat might taste until he was shaking and striping the tiles. A fair few long moments in fact. But, despite carefully-cultivated appearances, Clint wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t going to be led by his dick. Sure, he might have asked its opinion once or twice but he wouldn’t be basing his future life-planning on whatever his downstairs brain thought it might be a sexy idea. Not this time anyway.

He did actually have other, legitimate and more wholesome reasons as to why Coulson made a difference, why _now_. He’d spent a whole lot of time on rooftops and in alleys skirting the very edge of being caught to gather them and they were _good_. He was absolutely, sure they were, but there was no harm in checking them over again, just to make sure. Pushing up carefully up from his chair Clint started to pace as much as the cramped room would allow. Soothed by the action and as always thinking better while moving, he went through his reasons out loud, reassuring himself as much as checking his logic,

“One,” he ticked it off on his fingers, “Coulson’s obviously a senior agent. He has to be, doesn’t he, because they didn’t send him after you until they’d realised you were not to be fucked with. Which means he’s not the first line of defence, he’s the back-up they call in when it all goes to shit. That screams senior. You know that if you go in to a senior agent there’s much less chance of having your head blown off than if you try it with some wet-behind-the-ears rookie with a shiny new gun and twitchy trigger finger. Plus senior agents should have pull with whoever heads the show at S.H.I.E.L.D. so you’ll also have a better shot at being hired rather than dying in a pitch black cell with thick walls and with no keyhole. Right? Right.”

Yep, that was sound enough, logical. Good. He did another circuit of the room, making his point to his reflection as he passed the mirror.

“Okay, then. Two, he’s a badass. This shit with S.H.I.E.L.D. did not start getting real until this guy showed up, did it? The rest of them didn’t even get close to you, did they? But he has. Who set that tripwire trap that you almost ran over in Milwaukee? Coulson. Who fucked up your exits from the buildings back in Chicago? Coulson. And when you led that team tracking you right into the nest of tracksuit mafia, who took most of them out? Coulson did.” 

(Clint didn’t bother to remind himself of the fact that he’d spent the night sobbing into his pillow after viewing that particular performance, cock straining, fingers buried as deep in himself as he could get them and minds eye full of a whirl of suits and fists and the deadliest little smirk, ruining his sheets, because a) it wasn’t relevant to his current point and b) there was no way he would never ever fucking forget it.)

“He’s absolutely a badass. And if you’re going to go in, you have to go in with the best. You can’t fuck up Hawkeye’s reputation associating with shit, you need the shine. That’s just watching your own back. Which is just being sensible”

Clint was totally warming to his topic now, delivering his lecture to his reflection and the rest of his invisible but enthralled audience.

“Three,” he explained, “he seems to be a good guy. Remember when you shot that junior and she totally freaked even though you’d only pinned her by the sleeve? Had some kind of panic attack? Coulson stopped to talk her down from it, had her rescue herself and helped her calm before he sent her back into action. Who takes time for that in the middle of a live op? Only a genuinely good guy. And if he’s a good guy, your chances of being treated properly just went through the roof. You need some of that shit in your life Barton, don’t even pretend that you don’t.” his reflection didn’t argue, “Right. So far, so sound. So, four,” here Clint paused, side-eyeing himself in the blemished glass because this was the real kicker, the real selling point and where would be the point in pretending he didn’t know it? 

“Four…” he took a breath, “…he wants you. Hawkeye. He actually wants you to come in. You’ve found enough hints and obscure fucking messages about the place ever since he realised you won’t be caught and if you believe them, then he really really does. Want you. And if you think you can believe those hints, trust them. Him. Which,” he gave himself a _look_, “for _reasons_, you apparently do…” 

Meeting his own eyes in the mirror Clint took a long moment to assess the view. He saw a man who was nervous, maybe, but not afraid. A man who had his reasons and who had made up his mind. “…then there’s no reason to not go in. As long as it’s to him.”

Fuck it. He _had_ made up his mind. He was making the right call. This Coulson guy, fantasy fodder aside, was Clint’s best chance at reaching the new life he wanted and he’d waited long enough. 

Clint blew the breath out, hard, and nodded to his reflection. “Okay then Clint, good talk. What the fuck are we still waiting for? Let’s do this thing. Let’s let the shady government agency know where to find you.”

Clint felt a wave of anticipation roll through him, pushing the nerves up into excitement. The thrill of something new, a challenge, the promise of perhaps finding something he’d been looking for was a heady one. Plus, and it was a big plus, he’d finally get to meet Coulson. Maybe work with him? Perhaps, he let himself fantasise for a second, one day in the far-flung future when he’d been accepted at S.H.I.E.L.D., ask him out even. Take him on a date somewhere fancy and then…who knew? As a long term life-plan, he’d definitely had worse. The possibilities were suddenly, optimistically endless. The surge of optimism set Clint’s dick twitching again, and where was the harm in just one more time before it all became ‘yes Sir, no Sir’? Smirking, already working out his next set of moves in the game, he swept his phone up off the table and headed for the shower.

>>===>>

It took a couple of weeks for Clint to get everything where he wanted it, to set up stuff he needed and tie up loose ends he did not want dangling around while he tried to build his new(ish) life, but eventually he was satisfied that everything was ready. That _he_ was ready. And that was a good fucking job because Coulson, it seemed, had followed the trails of breadcrumbs Clint had so helpfully laid and was currently heading to a bar in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere about an hour’s drive south of Spokane to hopefully nurse a beer and wait for him to show. Clint, only five minutes away from said bar in a shitty motel, felt his gut clench at the thought of it. He checked his weapons – knife at his ankle, garrotte wire threaded into his belt, tranquiliser pin built into the buckle, and the rest – and then checked his outfit, because if first impressions counted then he was determined to make a good one. To be fair, he’d much rather have gone in full-Hawkeye rig, vest, bow and leathers and all and really made a show, but a quiet rural bar was hardly the place for that. Slowly he ran a critical eye over himself in the mirror and nodded. The outfit worked. His jeans fitted well, not city-skinny tight but tight enough to show off his assets, and while the shirt had long sleeves that were completely fucking irritating, it hid most of the details of his hard-earned muscles (which, he was not too humble to acknowledge, were a bit too eye-catching) and emphasised the bulk of his shoulders. The plaid pattern was loud but the colours set off his eyes and his boots and buckle were shiny but similarly just a smidge overdone, similarly eye-catching. He looked pretty much like every guy in this sleepy little town, just, louder and, honestly, hotter. Which was exactly the point, because it meant that he blended in well up to a point and after that point all anyone would remember was the shiny rhinestones, the clashing colours or the pertness of his ass, not his face. 

Perhaps his ability to hide in plain sight would earn him extra points with Coulson.

He also looked damn good. Which wasn’t exactly relevant because it wasn’t like this was a date for god’s sake, but still, it made him feel good to know it, confident. And being easy on the eye couldn’t exactly hurt his chances, could it?

He found himself whistling as he stepped out of his door.

>>===>>

Coulson was already at the bar when Clint arrived, drinking the expected beer and looking the very picture of any non-descript guy, tired and zoned out after a long day at work, staring at the ballgame playing over the bar with eyes so glazed that even from outside Clint could tell he wasn’t really watching it. It was a good cover act, dull, very ‘don’t see me’ unnoticeable, impressively so. Clint waited a good few minutes, scanning just to be sure that Coulson really was as alone as he looked, then sauntered in. Waving for a beer he grabbed the stool next to Coulson, hopped up and leaned on the bar glancing at the Agent. Woah. He was even hotter in person, despite the weary blandness of the cover persona he was wearing, and Clint had to knuckle down to keep up his own ‘average Joe’ act. Nevertheless he felt his heart-rate pick up when Coulson twitched his way. The agent gave him a quick but thorough once-over that ended in a decidedly not uninterested dilation of the pupils and Clint waited for some kind of signal, a code, an acknowledgement of some sort but…nothing. Coulson just turned back to the screen and resumed drinking. Clint watched his throat work for a second as he swallowed but nothing else seemed to be forthcoming.

Well.

Fuck.

Alright then. This was Clint’s meeting after all, maybe he should be the one to make contact. He cleared his own throat and tipped his bottle to gesture at the action playing out above them, “Big Yankees fan?”

Finally Coulson twisted to face him properly. “Not really.”

They talked idly for a couple of minutes, swapping stories of being fairly non-committal baseball fans who only really caught games through circumstance and the problem of having not much chance to form an attachment to any other team. The whole chat Clint kept his eyes open, watched carefully but Coulson never once broke his cover. Not once. Not even when he asked the pretty ludicrous question of whether Clint had travelled a lot as a kid. Given that Coulson had definitely had access to Clint’s juvie records and so certainly knew about his years the circus, the absolute deadpan way he asked was a fucking masterpiece and almost had Clint laughing out loud. He liked this guy more and with every second and he definitely wanted to say something. But Coulson didn’t and Clint thought it best to follow his lead, so he couldn’t either. Instead he schooled his face to something generic, drank another gulp of his beer and answered as if Coulson really needed to know, “You could say.” Honestly, the cheek of the guy. “I guess that must’ve been true for you too?”

“Family vacations. Every summer. In a station wagon to visit the national parks. Lots of motels, very few libraries.”

And wasn’t that another image? Somehow Clint could see it, this badass guy at ten or so sitting stifled in the back of a car, unimpressed by the glories of nature and itching for something to actually do. He had that look of repressed energy about him now, in the tightening at the corners of his eyes. He was obviously waiting for something to happen, same as Clint.

And yet, still nothing actually did.

Their talk petered out until they were both staring at the game again and Clint found himself losing patience. As cute as this chat was, he hadn’t planned so hard and risked so much to let his coming in to S.H.I.E.L.D. be such a damp fucking squib. Hadn’t Coulson asked for him? Hadn’t he followed the trail Clint had helpfully left? He obviously had because here he was and yet still he gave no sign of what Clint’s next move should be. What was taking so fucking long?

The longer the silence went on the higher Clint wound. Eventually, a mix of nervous, excited and pissed-off churning in his belly and driving him towards something reckless, he made his decision. Fuck it. This Coulson guy obviously wanted him to prove his mettle or something, wanted to see what play Clint would make to get them out of the bar and somewhere they could talk freely, so fuck it. Fine. He _would_ make a play, his own play, and let Coulson prove to Clint how _he_ would handle that. Tests could go both ways, couldn’t they? If this guy was going to take Hawkeye in then let him show he was worth it. It was a risk, sure, but then how many things were worth having that weren’t?

Clint grinned on the inside but kept his face and voice carefully casual as he glanced back over at Coulson. “Really,” he said easily, “if I’m gonna watch a game though, I’d rather do it as a background for something else, wouldn’t you?”

Coulson frowned the tiniest bit, “I don’t think that’s actually watching a game.”

He leaned in just slightly closer, “Depends on the something else,” he grinned, all bright charm and suggestion, “I mean, you can always stop fucking to watch the replay if something amazing happens, right?” then he sat back and, just because he could, he sent Coulson the barest slip of a wink and took another long drag from his bottle, carefully showing just a hint of tongue as he slid it into his mouth.

Coulson blinked, quick and wide-eyed, the first not-in-cover reaction he’d let slip so far and Clint could have crowed with triumph. It was only there for a tiny fraction of a second but it had definitely existed. Finally! He held down his smirk as Coulson scanned the bar - very discretely, Clint was impressed again - and turned back to him, one eyebrow quirking.

“Something amazing.” Coulson asked flatly and Clint could see his point. This bar, all work-boots and dusty flannels was not giving off any kind of a gay vibe at all but he stuck by his play. It was clear, totally believable if they were overheard and it gave them a cast-iron excuse to leave. It worked. And if it just happened to feed directly into one or two of the fantasies that he’d built up about hitting on ‘Agent Coulson?’, then who needed to know besides him? He shrugged.

“Like a grand slam or something.”

“Is worth stopping…”

“Well, unless you’re really into the sex. They’re up by eight though,” Clint nodded back at the screen, “so you’re probably right.” letting a thread of heat that was almost a touch too genuine bleed into his voice, he leaned in again and smiled slow, dirty, “We’d be better off focussing on the matter at…” he glanced down to Coulson’s fingers, wrapped round his bottle, “…hand.”

Coulson leaned too, he did it minutely, but he did it. Another score! “All right,” he said, “so I’ve had a long day, and maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there, but it seems like that might have been a proposition.”

Clint turned his smile to a grin and touched the tip of his tongue to his teeth. The moment felt dark, charged, and he hardly had to act at all, “I don’t know what else it would have been. Wanna get out of here?”

He watched as Coulson considered. Probably weighing up his performance, the cover, if he posed any residual threat level and he‘d expect nothing less from the guy. The moment stretched on just long enough for Clint to feel the first reappearance of true nerves, to start assessing his exits, and then Coulson shrugged and raised his hand to the bartender for the bill. As he turned, Clint saw a look of absolute want flash hot across his face and his entire body responded so hard that he had to hold back a shudder. Woah. This guy was some actor.

The bartender came over so Coulson pulled out his wallet and Clint pulled himself together. Alright, then. Here they went, make or break time. It would have been nice, more than, if he’d actually been picking up Coulson to take him home for something more fun than what was surely coming, but hey ho, Clint was realistic. Quickly he steeled himself for the next section of the evening, truly going in, explaining himself, giving his reasons, maybe even spending some time in interrogation or cuffs which surely would not be as much fun as it might be under other circumstances. But it had to be done and as soon as Coulson had finished paying, Clint slid from his stool and led the way out of the bar. Maybe he put just a bit of extra sway in his hips as he did but wasn’t that the cover? He might as well make the most of it. Who knew, Coulson might actually be paying attention.

Out in the parking lot Coulson paused, “I’m up the road half a mile.”

Alright then, apparently they were keeping it up, so what was a good excuse for Clint to not want to go down to his rooms? “Yeah, I’m that way,” he pointed vaguely down the opposite direction, “Your call, but my room’s pretty shitty. Just in town for a few days, so I didn’t exactly spring for a motel six.”

Coulson nodded. “My place it is.” Clint followed him to what must be his car and Coulson frowned as he got in, “No car?”

Well of course not.

Clint shrugged easily, “I’m on foot tonight.” 

“All right, come on.”

He buckled up and they pulled out. As the car left the lot and joined the road Coulson glanced over, “I’m Frank.” he offered.

No. 

No way a guy as hot and as badass as Coulson was walking around with a dumbass name like Frank. The laws of nature would simply couldn’t have allowed it, it would be a travesty the same as naming a panther something like ‘Blackie’. Clint watched his face and just caught the tiny, tiny tightening round his eyes that would have been a flicker to the right if Coulson hadn’t been so highly fucking trained. Silently he thanked his Hawkeye vision. Lying then. There must still be some threat of being overheard or something, some reason for maintaining cover. Fine. Clint could follow a lead with the best of them. He cleared his throat, “Uh. Clay.”

Coulson nodded and the rest of the drive, only minute or so, passed in silence. A charged silence, but an easy one. Clint could get used to that.

As Coulson’s hotel appeared and they swung into a parking space Clint’s heart-rate rose, beating against his ribs. He followed Coulson up the stairs to his room, palms tingling, body thrumming with controlled tension, all the hair on his arms standing on end. Even his nipples were starting to harden and he sent a silent thanks to the Clint of an hour ago for choosing the patterned shirt because, fuck, adrenaline and playacting could do weird things to the body and he did not exactly want Coulson picking up on that. Not yet, anyway. One day, maybe, but not now, he wasn’t going to show his entire hand on their first meeting, give Coulson any unfair advantage.

Coulson unlocked and went in first, heading to switch on the lamps by the bed. Clint followed him in and yeah, this was a much nicer room than his. Not quite the Four Seasons but intact wallpaper and clean carpet were not to be sniffed at and Coulson had a much bigger, plusher bed. It looked soft, inviting and Clint felt a stab of regret that he wouldn’t be getting any use out of it. There was even extra furniture, some fancy-schmancy armchair, the kind with a tall back like in old-fashioned libraries. Nice. Kinda surprising that there were no other Agents, safety measures or even visible paperwork but who was he to argue with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s recruitment methods?

Absolutely unable to resist one last piece of sass before shit got serious as it was surely about to do – better to let Coulson know now what he was letting himself in for - Clint pulled the door shut and arranged himself against the frame, undoing one shirt button and lounging ‘casually’ so that all the fabric pulled in all the right places, popping a hip to show off his ass.

He slipped on his best dirty grin again, “You wanna turn on the game?”

To his utter shock, when Coulson turned the smirk on his face was even dirtier than the one on Clint’s, “Eight-run lead?” Fuck, he was taking off his shoes, toeing them off quickly and kicking them away without looking which was shockingly sexy. Clint’s brain raced to catch up but Coulson was still talking, “We’ve got time.”

There was that look of want again and it hit Clint right in the centre of his chest, hard and sudden and oh holy hell, Coulson _meant_ it. The flush to his cheeks, the sudden jump in the pulse at his throat, the fact that he was still coming over and eyeing Clint like a hungry shark might eye the chum bucket, all yelled that Coulson actually wanted to take Clint’s play all the way to the finish. 

Well alright, yes. Hell yes. _Fuck_ yes.

All his bottled up desire bubbling over, Clint considered the wisdom of it for like, one microsecond but months of jerking off to a fantasy that had now come to life and was walking towards him kicked any warnings his sense might be sending straight to the curb. Fuck it. If this was recruitment, some sort of test he would take it. If this was just Coulson enjoying the perks of victory or if Clint’s act that hadn’t really been an act at all had just been too revealing of what he wanted, whatever, he’d take that too. Fair enough, he would be not only showing his hand but handing it over but it was too hard to care, and so what? They were both consenting adults, Coulson was fucking sexy, obviously thought Clint was too, nobody was taking advantage of anybody, it was more like sharing an advantage and _fuck it enough thinking_. Clint wanted and if he was allowed to have then, hell yes he was absolutely going to _take_.

He moved and grabbed, quickly enough to actually startle a surprised noise out of Coulson, but he didn’t have time to enjoy it because he was waaay too busy enjoying Coulson’s mouth instead. It was softer, fuller than it looked and as soon as he’d recovered from the shock Coulson kissed like a hurricane, strong and demanding and oh holy jesus, awesome. Clint groaned and ran his hands up Coulson’s spine even as he teased at the seam of his lips with the tip of his tongue. One hand in the hair at the nape of his neck he tipped Coulson’s head back and _pushed_ and fuck, Coulson opened to him so easily, so sweetly. He let Clint lick his way into his mouth then turned the tables on him, capturing and sucking on his tongue with long, delicious pulls that Clint felt all the way down in his dick. At this rate he was going to last about thirty seconds but it was a tornado sweeping him off and he could do fuck-all about it. 

So why try? 

He threw himself into the storm head-first.

Shirt. Much as it hurt to give up Coulson’s mouth there was totally too much wearing-of-clothes going on and he absolutely had to see what was hiding under that ugly-ass flannel. He made quick work of the buttons and pushed the damn thing off Coulson’s shoulders, taking his chance to run his hands down those fantastic forearms which were just as solid and muscled and sexy as they’d looked from a distance, then grabbed for the hem of his undershirt and ripped it up over his head. Jesus, he’d been right, the rest of Coulson was just as solid and mouth-watering and the sigh he gave when Clint palmed over his pecs and brushed over the sudden stiff points of his nipples had Clint pulsing hard in his jeans, aching and already feeling the denim dampening. Awesome.

Clint surged back in and caught Coulson’s bottom lip, biting hard and then harder as he felt the shudder that ran through him. Tipping Coulson’s head back again, Clint worried at his mouth, nipping and pulling until it was kiss-bruised and shining. Happily, Coulson didn’t seem to mind being manhandled so next Clint spun him round until they were chest to back, pulling him close and dragging his head to one side so that he could bite a series of messy kisses down his throat and over his shoulder, stopping at his collarbone to scrape his teeth against the thin skin there and, when Coulson still didn’t object, to suck a dark mark. It would be easily covered, but Clint’s blood sang at the idea of knowing it was there, would be there for days. All through whatever came next, processing Clint’s paperwork, tests, explaining to the higher-ups why Clint was even there, all through that Coulson’s skin would be holding hold the mark of Clint’s mouth. Want and possession mixed hit Clint hard and his breath came short. This was so much better than he’d ever imagined.

He needed more.

Wrapping his arms round Coulson Clint ran his fingers over his chest, tugging through the hair there (plenty of it, sexy), then left one hand pinching and twisting at his nipples while he laid the other flat against his belly and slipped the tips of his fingers under the waistband of Coulson’s jeans. They were frankly shockingly ill-fitting and to Clint’s mind it was a crime worthy of capital punishment to cover this body with that cut, the suits were so much better. Remembering the suits called for friction so Clint pulled his palm tighter to press Coulson backwards so he could grind up against his ass. His skin was fine and hot under Clint’s palm, his muscles flat and hard and Clint keened low into the curve of his throat at the sweet pressure against his cock. Coulson’s moan matched his and he pushed back even as he squirmed and twisted to reach Clint’s mouth again.

They stayed like that for perhaps an age, rocking, groaning and grunting against each other’s tongues, Coulson’s hands flexing but pinned helplessly at his sides, Clint’s roaming, testing and teasing until he was panting and Coulson shaking. Eventually Coulson twisted more forcefully in Clint’s grip and Clint let him go because he was absolutely down for getting up close and personal with that chest, but when Clint reached for him again Coulson stepped back. The wave of bereavement at the loss of Coulson’s skin was shockingly strong but Clint forgot about it the second Coulson’s hands ripped his shirt from his jeans and ok, apparently it was his turn to get naked. He had no objection and watching Coulson’s fingers - the same fingers he’d watched strip and re-load a firearm mid-chase and then stroked himself to the memory of -deftly undoing his shirt buttons was such a turn-on he went dizzy and had to close his eyes for a second to catch his breath. But Coulson didn’t stop there. The second Clint’s shirt was undone and dragged off he was working at Clint’s belt buckle, feeling over rhinestones to find how it opened, then pulling the belt free of his loops with a hissing drag that had goose-bumps racing across Clint’s body. Coulson saw, smirked, tossed the thing over his shoulder and reached quickly down to thumb open the buttons of Clint’s fly. Clint hissed at the sudden cold air (he’d forgotten to pack underwear, so sue him) and then when Coulson reached in and Clint’s cock practically leapt up into his palm the hiss melted into a wrecked groan that pulled up from the soles of his feet. Or possibly just his soul. God, his hands felt good, ridiculously good, filthily good. Coulson, obviously a sadist, smirked again and palmed his length with a couple of strokes, then ran his thumb over and around the flushed purple head, smearing the wetness pearling there because apparently he _wanted_ Clint to have a heart-attack and fall down dead. 

Which mission was almost accomplished when, looking Clint in the eye the entire time and still firmly holding onto his cock, Coulson dropped smoothly to his knees. 

Christ, the sight of him down there had Clint’s brain all but shorting out. Maybe it was a weird kind of trust exercise (because honestly, vulnerable parts near teeth) or maybe Coulson just liked dick in his mouth but either way Clint did not and could not object when Coulson sucked him down without a pause. Clint’s breath punched out of him. He’d hardly processed anything besides ‘warm, wet, _good_’ when Coulson did something frankly illegal with the edge of his tongue and Clint’s hips bucked forward completely unbidden and pushed his cock, _hard_, into Coulson’s throat. Coulson coughed, choked and Clint had just ripped himself backward about to apologise when he caught the look on Coulson’s flushed face. Not at all an angry look, oh hell no. This look was half smugness and half frustration and all absolute, hungry greed. It was the kind of look that asked for more and, hell yes, Clint was more than happy to oblige.

“Okay?” he moved to feed his cock back into Coulson’s waiting mouth even as he asked the question, having already seen the answer in his eyes (though the little nod Coulson managed round his mouthful was good too), taking Coulson’s shoulders to press him back against the wall and crowd in close. He rocked his hips once or twice, getting a feel for what Coulson could take, and then, when he met no objection, pushed himself into Coulson’s heat as far as he could go. Which was all the way. Fuck. Ing. Hell. This guy. Clint held himself there, grinding his cock against the back of Coulson’s throat, watching as tears formed in his eyes and his nostrils worked frantically to take in air. So fucking pretty and that look on his face never changed, always asking ‘_give me more_’, and how was Clint to argue? Leaning to brace his arms against the wall he caged Coulson in to fuck in and out of his mouth, his open willing throat, pressing faster and faster, harder and harder with long, luxurious thrusts, watching for signs of discomfort and seeing none. Coulson seemed perfectly happy down there, his red lips stretched wide and gorgeous around Clint’s length, his cheeks wet with tears. The man was incredible, apparently insatiable. The tight sheath of him, the drool escaping to drip prettily down his chin, the choked moans cut off by Clint’s cock each time he snapped his hips, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided not to take Clint in after all and this was the way he was going to die, screaming his life down Coulson’s throat and he didn’t care. Jesus christ, he didn’t care.

Clint lost himself in the rhythm for a long and frenzied time, would have stayed lost except Coulson whined and reached for his own dick, squeezing hard through his jeans and yeah, no, Clint wasn’t having that. He was always all about reciprocity, it was only good manners and of course he was still trying to make a good impression. No way was he going to go down in S.H.I.E.L.D. as the man who left Agent Coulson hanging. More importantly and besides any of that, he’d thought too long about having his hands or mouth on Coulson and there was absolutely no way that he was going to let this end without having gotten to see exactly what the Agent was packing, to hold him, taste him. His cock was surely as ridiculously handsome as the rest of him and it would probably fit nicely against Clint’s tongue, fill him up hot and sweet. That thought sent Clint’s hips crashing forward again with a force that made Coulson grunt and swallow reflexively around Clint so that he almost forgot his intentions and came right there and then, just managing to stop himself by sheer force of will and possible divine intervention. How was this guy so _good_, so fucking perfect?

Slowing, Clint pulled out, his cockhead dark, slick and shining with Coulson’s spit and his own pre-come and he almost lost it again at the sight watching himself slide through those lips. Coulson leaned his head back against the wall, chest heaving like an obscene image dragged straight out of Clint’s fantasies and that was _it_, Clint had to get his mouth on him too, ideally in the next three seconds.

“Yeah,” he said, sliding his fist over his cock, just about managing to form words, “but this is no fair.”

“What, no.” Coulson protested and fuck his voice was wrecked, the smooth, clipped vowels gone all ragged. Clint’s cock jerked up at the very sound of it, drooled and Coulson reached out for him again, “No, this is _great_.”

Pleased to hear it but desperate and determined all the same, Clint shook his head, “Yeah, but when do _I_ get a taste?”

He scanned the room in a second, weighing up his options. Bed? No. Obvious but a little too obvious, kinda awkward for a two-on-two. Floor? Uncomfortable, same logistical options as bed. His eye snagged on the armchair, the old-fashioned one that he’d noticed earlier and his face lit up with a grin. Yes. Tricky, but so what, it would give him perfect access to Coulson’s cock and allow for a little showing off. Perfect.

Coulson still looked halfway to arguing so Clint hauled him to his feet, stopped his mouth again and manhandled him across the room. Kissing, and pushing him backwards with the force of the kiss, Clint could taste himself in Coulson’s mouth as they moved in a true dirty dance, one of his hands on Coulson’s waist to guide and the other working at his fly, dragging down the zip, palming roughly at the sizeable bulge underneath. Coulson’s knees hit the chair and Clint moved quickly, snatching down Coulson’s jeans and underwear so that when he sat he sat bare-assed in the seat and his cock slapped wetly against his stomach. Fuck. Clint had been right, it was a handsome one, standing proud and hard and flushed and Clint needed to get up close and personal with it right the fuck now. Unable to resist he swept his thumb up its length, smooth and soft-skinned like hot velvet, making sure to drag his calluses where he knew they’d be most effective, running them up the thick vein on the underside and circling round the gleaming head until Coulson was shuddering, shaking under his hand. Half reluctantly Clint pulled away - licking his thumb just to see Coulson shiver again - then turned, arched back to put his palms flat on the floor and kicked his feet up over his head. Jeans staying round his ankles, which was a mercy or he would have looked a bit fucking stupid, he hand-walked back to plant his feet on the high back above Coulson and bent his head, now at the prefect height to lick hotly at Coulson’s thigh. Coulson jerked and gasped, which Clint took as the perfect opportunity to slot his cock back into Coulson’s mouth, even as he buried his mouth round Coulson’s own.

The muffled yelp Coulson gave was absolute music.

It wasn’t the most comfortable Clint had ever been but hell, Trick had had him run drills back in his circus days that were a lot worse than this and for a lot less reward. It wasn’t like he going to have to be there for long anyway, their session against the wall had them both on a knife’s edge and the throb of Coulson’s pulse against his tongue, the bittersweet taste of him, was absolutely doing the job of racing Clint the rest of the way. He might have worried about it but the way Coulson was grunting round the slide of his cock and flexing his hips up to push his own towards Clint’s mouth suggested that he wasn’t the only one feeling the strain towards the finish line, and fuck it, neither of them were holding back. Which was just…ngh. God. 

Upside down, Clint rocked his hips to fuck Coulson’s face, feeling the covered threat of his teeth, the soft roughness of his tongue dragging against his length and rippling as Coulson worked to take him in further, dancing along the perfect balance between suction and friction. Clint reeled. He went faster and harder and Coulson took him faster and harder because apparently he was just that fucking wonderful, his snatched breaths and choked grunts forming an obscene soundtrack in the quiet room . Desperate, hungry, Clint worked his own mouth round Coulson’s cock, licking and sucking a hot rhythm in time with his invasion of Coulson’s throat. The angle wasn’t quite right for him to suck Coulson down the way he would have liked but what Clint lacked in access he made up for in enthusiasm because _fuck_, there was a lot to be enthusiastic about. He wound his tongue round Coulson, licked up the length of his shaft then stretched to flick over and over at the very tip in a tease that had Coulson shouting what sounded very much like muffled curses and felt very much like utter fucking heaven, the rumble in his chest sparking down Clint’s spine until his arms threatened to tremble. In retaliation Clint kissed messily down to suck hard at the base of Coulson’s cock, mouthing round his balls, sucking them gently into his mouth and rolling them over his tongue, stretching the skin out until the point just before pain, then finally, softly, letting them go. Over and over,Coulson’s hips kicked, sending his cock sliding wetly against Clint’s cheek, painting his face with spit and slick until he was a dripping mess, everything the feel and smell and taste of Coulson. Clint drank it in and pushed harder, hardly knowing if it was the heat in his mouth he liked best or the heat round his dick. Either. Both. All.

Unable to resist, Clint moved back to mouthing messily round the base of Coulson’s cock, tipped his chin as far as he could to look up at the man above him and almost lost his mind. Coulson was an absolute fucking picture, one Clint knew he was absolutely going to store forever and pull out on lonely evenings because _shit_. Head tipped back, mouth open, nostrils flared for breath, Coulson’s eyes were closed in what looked like rapture, taking Clint’s thrusts like a champ and Clint could hardly pull his own eyes from the sight of his own cock sliding through those stretched wide lips. It was mesmerising, so fucking hot, the hottest, but it was Coulson’s throat that almost sent him over. Seeing the tight, white column of that throat and knowing that it was his cock buried in there, his cock making it work, his cock causing the slight bulge that moved down it every time every time he rocked his hips, Clint had never seen anything so, so…there were no fucking words. He moaned hard into Coulson’s lap, the question of ‘if’ he were going to come very quickly changing to just when and exactly where. No time to waste, Clint managed to pull his mouth away from Coulson’s heat just long enough to gasp,

“Hey, can I come in you?”

before dropping back down to mouth the vein throbbing up the underside of his shaft. Coulson’s eyes flickered open at the question and another wave of sparks rippled down Clint’s spine as Coulson groaned again and nodded, his cock jerking hard against Clint’s face. Absolutely lost in the strength of that enthusiasm Clint redoubled both his fucking and licking, giving Coulson everything he had until he was dizzy with it, chasing the edge that was suddenly racing towards him with almost terrifying speed. 

In the end, they went over together. 

Panting, Clint twisted his head to graze his teeth lightly against Coulson’s skin just at the same time as Coulson gave one of his little aborted jerks, knocking Clint’s chin and turning the graze into more of a bite. Clint flinched but Coulson whined and pushed up into it and suddenly his hands were on Clint’s hips pulling him back with a grip of iron, his throat was opening impossibly wider, taking Clint impossibly further in, and god it was so tight, so hot, so _deep_. Clint’s jaw tightened with the hot shock so that his teeth scraped against Coulson again, Coulson’s fingers bit into his hips as he swallowed round Clint, throat shaking with what was surely a scream and that was it, that was _it_, Clint was lost, coming _hard_ and pulsing down Coulson’s throat, stifling his cries in Coulson’s skin. As Clint’s come hit the back of his throat Coulson’s body clenched and he came too, jerking against Clint’s mouth, painting Clint’s chin and his own bare chest, covering the both of them in a filthy, glorious mess. Clint worked him through it as much as he could then dropped his head to rest on Coulson’s thigh, sucking and kissing at the soft skin there as he shivered through his own aftershocks, cock still resting shallowly, happily in Coulson’s mouth.

For a long moment there was nothing but a trembling silence, only broken by their heaving breaths and the slide of wet mouths on skin and Clint would have stayed there for ever, buried in Coulson, if it weren’t for the way his arms threatened to wobble. Eventually, reluctantly, he lifted his head. Where his mouth had been Coulson’s thigh was marked with a livid bruise and the sight of it against the whiteness there sent another dark shudder through him. Another mark. He kissed it softly, more possessively than he had any right to really, and slid himself free. The room flipped as Clint kicked off the back of the chair and righted himself, pulling his jeans back to a comfortable level and falling to sit heavily on the end of the bed.

The wave of euphoria that took him had very little to do with the sudden change in bloodflow and everything to do with how blown his mind was. Fuck, but this _had_ been one of his better plans! Not only had he successfully given himself up to S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d gotten this out of it? And fuck, Coulson had been awesome, beyond awesome, strong and demanding but so willing to give himself over too. Clint didn’t think he’d ever felt this good in his entire life. He looked over to where Coulson was still slumped panting in the chair, eyes just cracking open. Clint grinned.

“So, at first I didn’t think you were serious,” he glanced down at himself and god but he was covered in Coulson’s come. He laughed and wiped off his chin, brought his fingers up to his mouth to lick, filthy, lovely, “But, shit, Coulson, if I’d thought this would happen if I came in out of the cold I’d have let you catch me _years_ ago.” 

Still laughing, swiping at the rest of the mess down his throat and chest and yes, alright, already wondering about the possibility of a shower and round two (or a round two in the shower?) Clint looked back at Coulson to share the joke and froze.

Coulson was emphatically not sharing any joke. Instead he’d gone very, very still, solid even and despite the wreck of his clothing was suddenly one hundred percent Agent. Clint’s brain stuttered because, alright, that did not look good. Coulson squeezed his eyes tight and then opened them to glare at Clint, gaze clear as day and a fuck-tonne more scary than in Clint’s fevered imaginings.

“Clint Barton. Fuck.”

His voice sounded like a bear who’d eaten a barrel of gravel or like a man who’d spent the better part of an hour with a cock in his throat and yeah, sure, Clint’s dick twitched with remembered pleasures, but he was more concerned with the words. 

And the slight stain of surprise.

Because that had to mean…

That Coulson hadn’t in fact….

Aw, fuck.

Clint grimaced, “Wait, you actually did not…” 

Coulson sat, impassive and Clint felt himself grow hot with…panic? disappointment? loss? shame? he had no fucking clue. Hurriedly he tried to explain himself, to re-gain the good standing he’d thought he had, “…okay, shit, sorry,” he apologised, “See, okay, I was hitting on you because I figured it would get me in the room, and then like, the name, and you seemed to want to, um. And like, I figured….hmm.” Shit, he was blushing. He could feel it. Blushing. He’d tried to come in like a badass, like a potential valuable asset, had just had a fucking spectacular orgasm - and delivered one too, he was still wearing the evidence - and now he was _blushing?_ How much worse could this get? How bad had it gotten? Fuck it. He might as well ask. “Did I just fuck this up? Because I have a special talent for…”

“Shut up.” Coulson stood and held up a finger, cutting him off. “Don’t move, and shut up.”

Clint spent possibly the longest minutes of his life while Coulson went into the room’s bathroom. The taps ran and Clint silently wondered how Natasha would react when he told her this fucking story. Probably piss herself laughing or slap him upside the head. Or both. He probably deserved both. Jesus, he hoped he’d not made as much of a mess of this as he was beginning to suspect he might have. He’d not meant to end up here had he, not like this, starting to panic and covered in come but Coulson had seemed so…and looked so….well. Clint’s dick definitely remembered. It twitched again and he glared at it. Stupid fucking thing, it couldn’t have waited a little? Until he was safe and established at S.H.I.E.L.D.? Surely it could have waited, even though Coulson’s ass had looked…and his voice had been…oh fuck there it went again! Clint was saved from having to deliver a lecture about timing to his least-behaved body part when Coulson came back.

He was holding two glasses of water and he passed one to Clint before downing his and setting the glass on the side table. Then he turned back to Clint, arms folded.

“Yes, I did want.” he said and fucking bells started pealing in Clint’s head because that was great news wasn’t it? That bit anyway. Coulson continued, “No, I didn’t know. Yes, I was looking for you but you’re really fucking good at staying clear of cameras so the only real picture I have is your first grade one and, thankfully, you’ve grown a little.” Was that a joke? Clint almost thought it must be but then Coulson frowned and his gut clenched, “I don’t know if you’ve fucked anything up because I don’t know what you were trying to achieve.”

“What?” Clint stared, indignant. He put his glass down, folded his own arms, “I said! I wanted to let you catch me now because I was doing pretty good as a free agent but there are reasons why that’s kind of a pain in the ass and there’s this thing where I’ve gotten messages a few times where it seemed like you S.H.I.E.L.D. guys maybe want to recruit me not kill me? So I left you a few hints around the place so you could find me, and you did, or I thought you did because here we are and I’m hoping that was right because I don’t really want to die in a motel six…” he looked up at Coulson, who hadn’t really moved but had somehow softened, not so much behind the armour, not so much on the defensive, maybe believing Clint’s babbling, letting just a little of what had just happened between them shine through in the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the loosening in the line of his shoulders. It was just enough for Clint to decide to push his luck, “…but I’m also hoping that this fucking thing isn’t off the table if I do come in, like is there a rule? Because I mean, that was awesome and like…”

He wound down as Coulson pressed his lips together in a tight line. It wasn’t quite enough to take the bruised red out of them, but it was enough to make Clint stop talking.

“We do,” Coulson nodded, “Want to recruit you. It’s what I’m here for. S.H.I.E.L.D. does not, as a rule, spend a lot of time in the Palouse. I followed your ‘hints’ apparently, though I did not know it was you leaving them around.” Well, that was awesome news for Clint because he wasn’t about to see the wrong end of a barrel and the inside of a bodybag. Nat would still probably slap him but at least he was going to be alive for that to happen. At least one part of his plan was coming good, no pun intended.

Coulson took a deep breath, “The fucking is a problem because orgasm is not considered an appropriate recruitment technique.” 

Not as good. Clint opened his mouth to argue - because a) it had hardly been Coulson’s idea, or his fault and b) no fucking fair! he was going to get to be in S.H.I.E.L.D. but he wasn’t going to get another go-round with Coulson? But he had so many ideas! And not even all of them were filthy! - but Coulson shot him a glare and cut off his protest before he even had chance to start it.

“However, my throat hurts…” Coulson swallowed significantly and _shut up dick_ Clint thought frantically downwards, “and I don’t really want to have a conversation about this right now, so: I can call in and have someone come get you, or--”

What? No! That absolutely didn’t work for Clint. Hawkeye was meant to be taken in by the agency badass, not by whichever junior lackey the badass managed to drag out of bed at this hour. He needed to make that impression still. Plus… he was weirdly reluctant to let Coulson out of his sight just yet. 

“No,” he shot, “wait, can I just, maybe you can come with?”

Coulson raised an eyebrow, “With a freshly fucked throat and a hickey on my thigh? I don’t think so.” He said it flatly but there was that little crinkle again and Clint felt a sudden rush of hope, “As I was saying, _or_, if your goal is actually to come in, we can do that tomorrow.”

The words left his mouth faster than any arrow had ever left his bow, “Yes that one please.”

Coulson nodded but with a satisfied little smile that tugged on Clint’s gut. Maybe someone had wanted to bring in the badass as much as he’d wanted to be taken in by the badass. He was so busy watching Coulson’s lips that he missed the phone coming out of his pocket until the shutter sound went off. Clint assumed the photo was for official purposes but given that he was still very much dishevelled, half naked and covered in, well, Coulson, he hoped that particular one wouldn’t reach his I.D. badge. Coulson pressed a couple of buttons then put the phone down on the table next to his glass. He fixed Clint with a serious stare and his brain went on a crazy loop again, singing ‘blue, blue, so fucking blue’ until Coulson coughed pointedly and scowled,

“If you leave, I will find you again and next time, there will be handcuffs.”

Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening. The leaving bit anyway. Clint grinned, “Kinky.”

“Seriously.” 

Coulson eyebrowed him sternly again but he also crinkled and Clint decided, why the hell not? His plan to join S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to be back on track and okay, his plan to maybe ask Coulson to coffee one day had kinda gotten ahead of itself but fuck it, in for a dime, in for a dollar. He stood and showily wriggled off his jeans, then pushed down the covers, lay back on the bed and reclined into the pillows, folding his arms behind his head and stretching everything out to its best advantage. Coulson’s breath definitely caught and Clint raised his own eyebrow, “Meanwhile, more fucking?”

Wordlessly, Coulson turned, picked up his glass and went back into the bathroom. Clint waited while taps ran again and he heard the sounds of brushing teeth which was frankly adorable and while it seemed a fucking _age_ before Coulson came back, when he did, he was back to smiling darkly. Clint’s heart started to race. Coulson crossed the room and got into the bed, pulling the blankets up over them both, then, to Clint’s pleased surprise, leaned in and pressed a kiss against his lips. It was quick but definitely heated and Coulson’s eyes glittered with the promise of potential for a lot more where that came from. A lot more of a lot more. Clint swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and leaned forward to return the favour, “I’ll take that as a yes on the fucking then shall I Coulson?”

“Phil.”

Clint stopped. “Sorry?”

“Phil. Under the circumstances. And only for tonight. It’s Phil.”

Oh yes, that was so much better than Frank. Way, way, better. “Alright. So I’m Clint then.” He grinned because this going in thing was absolutely proving to be one of the best plans he’d ever made.

Then Phil was kissing him again, harder and longer, all teeth and tongue and Clint joined in happily until Phil pulled back again, “Only for tonight.”

“Understood. Totally. Tomorrow, Agent Coulson.” Clint could see the sense of that, absolutely he could, reputations and all, but it didn’t stop him from making the obvious joke, “And tomorrow Sir, you can call me ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’.

Phil groaned, but he was already reaching out to cup the back of Clint’s neck, already pressing one of his thighs between Clint’s own, “You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Clint’s answer was muffled, almost lost in the heat and welcome of Phil’s mouth. He slid his palm across the ass in question and pulled it and the rest in closer until it was snug to his body and in reach of his wandering hands, grinned into the kiss, “but I promise Phil, I’ll try to be worth it.”

>>===>>


End file.
